Broken Records by Bree Bennett
Chapter 26
Jack awoke to a hand trailing down his backbone. A rustle of rumpled sheets. A chill as blanket-warmed flesh was exposed to room air. And then—
“Holy moly, it’s a unicorn,” said Lucy.
Jack refused to open his eyes, groping first for the covers to tighten them back around his bare buttocks, and then for Lucy, hooking an elbow around her and hauling her back into his arms.
“I told you,” he said, buzzing her temple. “First rule of ass tattoos. Don’t talk about ass tattoos.”
“But—but—how? Why?”
“Cough syrup,” he muttered, kissing the side of her neck, “and John Goodman.”
“I see,” she said in a tone that suggested she did not see at all. But then Jack kissed lower, and her breath hitched in a way that he hoped meant she had forgotten about unicorns and tattoos and poor John Goodman.
“Your phone is ringing,” Lucy breathed out, grasping his wrist. Jack paused his ministrations long enough to acknowledge the dull buzz of the phone vibrating against his nightstand.
“It’s fine,” he said. “Ignore it.” The noise ceased and then restarted.
Lucy grabbed his wrist again, halting his progress. “But what if it’s an emergency?” she asked.
“It’s not—” Jack remembered the last time he had that particular thought process and checked the phone. “Eh, it’s just the Anti-Christ.”
“The Anti-Christ?”
“My mother. Ignore her.”
The phone stopped vibrating and then began again, because what was more indicative of demonic behavior than calling non-stop while he was trying to gain carnal knowledge of his wife?
Lucy pinned his wrist again, and he groaned. He slid a hand out from the sheets and dipped it into his glass of water on his bedside table, flicking the droplets at the phone. “Stop calling. The power of Christ compels you!”
Lucy sighed and snagged the phone from the nightstand, accepting the call.
“Wait, she usually does—” Too late, Jack’s mother’s face materialized on the screen. “Video calls,” he finished hoarsely, yanking the sheet up and over their nude bodies.
Lucy sat up, her back against the headboard, holding the phone in front of her face and regarding Jack’s mother with a clinical expression.
“Who are you?” Rita Rae asked, peering down her expertly sculpted nose.
“I’m Lucy,” she said.
“Where’s Jack?”
“He’s right here.” She panned the phone toward Jack for less than a second before bringing it back to her own face.
“You must be the wife,” Rita said in a dry tone.
“I must be,” said Lucy, just as dryly.
Jack’s eyes widened at Lucy’s passive sass, unsure if he was worried or aroused by it.
“Charming.” The older woman rolled her eyes. “Give the phone to Jack.”
Jack took the phone from Lucy, who seemed disinclined to give it up. “What do you want?”
“Darling.” His mother’s voice turned to velvet. “What is this nonsense? Is this a cry for help?”
“No, I got married.” He paused. “Pretty sure you’re familiar with that concept.”
“Jack,” she purred, though her eyes had thinned to slits. “There’s someone I want you to meet. She’s a runner-up from that reality show, the one with the roses. I’ve taken her under my wing as a bit of a mentor. You would love her.”
“Mother.” Once again, he wondered why he didn’t just call her by name, or even some sort of variation of hellspawn.
Lucy squinted an eye in disbelief. “Is she setting you up on a date?”
“You’re not famous enough,” Jack mouthed at her.
“Jack, pay attention,” Rita snapped. She smoothed her ombre hair, flipping the tendrils behind her shoulder. “I’m on Angie in the Afternoon on Friday. Maureen might be there.”
“Who’s Maureen?” Lucy piped up.
“I think she’s the reality star,” Jack said out of the corner of his mouth. “Mother, I think we’ve already established that I’m married.”
“Fine. Have it your way.” Her eyes flicked to Lucy with distaste. “Angie suggested that you appear on the show with me, and we could do a duet. A Christmas one.”
And there it was. There was always a self-promoting reason for Rita’s calls. “No. Also,” Jack stroked his jaw with a dramatic pondering pout, “no.”
“Oh, but Jack, dear.” Rita’s mouth widened in a devious grin. “I’m sure Kim would think it’s a great idea.”
Jack’s grim smile stayed in place, but his heart sank. If Rita went to Kim, Kim would ask Jack, and though she’d respect his decision, she’d know as well as he did that it was a good idea, even if it was painful. Who wouldn’t want to see a mother-son Christmas duet? It was as holly jolly as overdosing on dollar store candy canes.
And then there was Lucy. Now that she was his, he had the sickening desire to make sound business decisions, like strengthen his public image or carry a leather briefcase.
“Fine,” he said in resignation. “But only to promote the new album. I’m not doing this as some sort of vanity project for you.”
His mother paused, coiled like a combat-ready rattlesnake. “I’m just trying to look out for you, darling. If you hadn’t wasted the past few years being such a drunken idiot, you’d be the headliner, not me.”
Jack tried not to flinch at her venomous strike, but it was inevitable. He’d been hearing if you hadn’t statements his whole life, but they never ceased to cut into his chest like an arrowhead.
“And you wouldn’t be resorting to marrying groupies,” Rita added.
Now she’d done it.
“Groupie?” Lucy snatched the phone from Jack with such force that she nearly took his fingers along with it. “Groupie?! I am many things, but I am not a groupie.” Jack strained to take the phone back, but she squirmed away and continued. “And how dare you talk like that to your son!”
Rita didn’t even blink, and if Jack weren’t so familiar with her habits, he wouldn’t have noticed the threatening set to her jaw. “Do you even know who I am?” Rita drawled.
Oh,Mother. Jack pinched the bridge of his nose and waited.
Lucy made a choked scoffing noise. “Rita Rae. Genre, pop. Instrument, vocals only. First album, Girl Downstairs. 1979. Second album, Corner Dance. 1982. One Grammy.” Her nostrils flared. “Your last album, A Rita Rae Christmas, only sold—”
And that shattered his mother’s calm demeanor. “I won’t be talked to like this by some star fu—”
“Uh, yeah, no.” Jack ended the call and tossed the phone on the nightstand. It skidded across the varnish and fell to the carpet below.
Lucy let out a long, exasperated sigh. “So, that’s my mother-in-law?”
Jack rolled over until Lucy was pinned underneath him. “Holy shit,” he breathed.
Lucy frowned. “Yes?”
“You’re like an Avenging Angel.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “A Harbinger of Havoc. A Bad-Ass of…Bad-Assery.”
She blinked. “Jack.”
“I mean, you took on my mom!” he said. “She’s a celebrity!”
Lucy tilted her head and gave him an expectant look.
“Oh yeah.” he scrunched his nose. “But she’s the scary kind of celebrity. I’m just the drunken idiot kind.”
Lucy’s body went rigid beneath him. “You’re not an idiot.”
“Yeah?”
“And except for your visit to Hogwarts, you haven’t been drinking as much.”
Jack thought back to the past week. Except for that night in the bar, he hadn’t had a drink since before they went to Indiana. That siren’s call to drink was always there, but it hadn’t been that loud in many days. The change both elated and terrified him, and suddenly, all he wanted was something to ground him.
Or someone.
“Need you,” he said hoarsely, rolling his hips against hers and kissing her in the hollow of her collarbone. Her eyes flitted shut and her neck tilted back in a sensual arch. He traced the sunlit slope with his fingers, committing every tender inch of skin to memory and claiming it all as mine, mine, mine.
Lucy gasped when he slid into her tight warmth, and the sound was a breath mark, the hush before the conductor raises his baton. Then they moved together, legs tangled and lips meeting. Every moan was a melody, every sigh a symphony. And when at last they tipped over into oblivion together, it was a perfect, sweet, duet.
* * *The soundstage of Angie in the Afternoon was the exact opposite of Lucy’s concert experience. Yes, there were people, and yes, there were lights and noises, but it was much calmer, more of a gentle rain than a roaring typhoon. Parker had gotten her an aisle seat, just in case, and he would sit next to her during the taping.
Jack had struggled that week, though he would have never admitted it to her. He’d spent his days at the studio and his nights—and sometimes afternoons—and, oh hell, mornings too—in bed with her, but there were moments outside of that when his honeymoon eyes had lost their luster, the grim line of his mouth tightened, and his hand grasped and flexed around a phantom glass. As the day of the interview neared, the episodes grew more frequent. Lucy had refrained from mentioning his mother, and he never brought her up, not even as they arrived at the television studio before recording.
Parker took his seat next to her a few minutes before the scheduled start time.
“How was he backstage?” Lucy asked.
“We holed up in the dressing room until I had to go,” Parker said. “He seemed resigned to his fate, for the most part. There may have been some punched pillows and a flying water bottle, but yeah, resigned to his fate.”
Lucy rubbed at her forehead. “And everything is set up for afterward?”
Parker cracked a grin. “Of course. The food should be —”
He was interrupted by a round of applause as the show began taping. Angie, a bubbly middle-aged woman who somehow made her viewers feel like her best friend, sibling, child, and student all at once, came out to a roar of clapping over a saxophone solo of “Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer.” Between covering her ears and Parker’s single, soothing hand on her back, Lucy managed to stay grounded. As the interviews began, she was able to appreciate the intricacies of daytime television talk shows. They laughed through an interview with an amiable Broadway composer and clapped for a children’s a cappella act. During breaks, Parker pointed out different electrical equipment, cameras, and recording devices he had mastered in school.
And then the lights dimmed to blues and whites and twinkling fairy lights, and Rita and Jack descended onto the second stage, hand in hand, until they sat in two high-backed wooden chairs in front of a microphone and Jack’s guitar perched on a stand. Jack flashed his mother a tender smile, and it was clear he had inherited some of his late father’s acting talent.
After one of Jack’s saucy winks at the audience, they began a simplistic cover of Bing Crosby and David Bowie’s arrangement of “Peace on Earth” and “Little Drummer Boy,” accompanied by Jack’s acoustic guitar.
Though she kept her eyes on her husband, who “pa rum pum pum pum”-ed like a champ, Lucy admitted to herself that Rita Rae did have a lovely voice. It was just one of those cases where the metaphorical bubble was inherently better than the bubble blower herself.
“He deserves an Oscar,” grumbled Parker as the song ended and Jack leaned over and kissed his mother on the cheek as they acknowledged the audience’s applause. He grabbed Rita’s hand in one hand, and his guitar in the other, and they made their way to the main stage, hugging and kissing Angie like a long-lost relative.
“Riiiiiiiiita, always a favorite guest!” cooed Angie in her usual singsong voice, stretching her vowels like taffy as she hugged the slender pop star. “And Jack, it’s been a while, but it’s always an adventure when you’re here.” Jack gave her round cheek a smacking kiss and flopped down onto the guest sofa, guitar in his lap like a purring pussycat.
Jack usually brought his guitar to interviews, a gimmick that had started when he was a nervous teenager on Conan O’Brien’s show and simply forgot to put it down after his performance. It spurned several unforgettable moments over the years, including an impromptu duet with Aretha Franklin and a flirtatious serenade of Dolly Parton on her birthday. Usually, though, it was just there to hold and occasionally pluck, like an oversized fidget spinner.
“So, first off, congratulations on getting maaaaarrrr-ieeeeed,” squealed Angie, grasping Jack’s left wrist and displaying his ring for the audience to see. Jack grinned and wiggled two bunny-like fingers in Lucy’s direction. Lucy wasn’t sure if he could see her, but she curled two fingers in response just in case.
“Rita, what was it like seeing your baby boy go down the aisle at last?” asked Angie, unknowingly igniting the end of a pop star-shaped firecracker. Parker’s forearm tensed on the armrest between them. Lucy wasn’t sure if she needed to preemptively call the police or make the sign of the cross.
“Well, he’s forty years old,” said Rita with a sickly smile, “It’s about time he settled down.” She laughed without humor and patted Jack on the shoulder. “But I actually wasn’t at the wedding. Lucy and Jack wanted to keep it private and—I suppose rural is the right word.”
Jack’s hand went to his guitar, softly plucking at the E string. Lucy tapped her palm in sympathetic anxiety.
“Yes, we got married in a small ceremony in Indiana.” He winked at the audience again. “Go, Hoosiers!” A few attendees whooped in response.
“Yes, I wish I could have been there, but it makes me so happy to see how happy Jack is.” Rita gripped her son’s bicep as if he were still a naughty child she was yanking into the corner to punish.
“It’s hard to miss a family member’s wedding,” Jack said. “I haven’t been able to make your last—” he counted off on his fingers, “—four weddings?” He beamed puppy dog eyes at Angie. “Tour schedules, you know?”
“Hmm, yes,” agreed the television host. Her top lip was curved in a smile, but her bottom lip was well on its way to a grimace. Angie turned her attention to Rita, prompting her about the upcoming season of her singing contest show. Lucy tuned out her mother-in-law and tried to concentrate on Jack’s fingers, which were traveling all across the guitar. It sounded a little like “Slow Down,” but when she repeated the notes in her head—
Lucy groaned and buried her face in her hands as her husband plucked out the tune to “You’re So Vain” on national television while his mother discussed her career.
The interview went downhill from there.
Jack talked about the upcoming album, which Rita turned into a discussion about her own extensive catalog. Jack countered by picking out Darth Vader’s theme, “The Imperial March” on the guitar while Rita extolled her partnership with a new makeup company. By the time the interview was well past done, Rita’s face was the color of a turnip, Angie was stammering and flustered, members of the audience were smirking with apparent schadenfreude, and Jack was playing “Ding-Dong! The Witch is Dead” on his guitar with a deluded grin.
“Well, as alwaaaaaaaays,” Angie swallowed with the expression of a robot who had just learned to smile, “thanks for coming on the show, and we’ll have you back soon!” She winked at the camera. “Maaaaaaaybe not on the same day though.” The cameras cut away, and two stagehands came out to lead Jack and Rita back to their dressing rooms.
“I’m going back there,” sighed Lucy, rummaging for her pass. “You go get things ready back home.”
Parker shook his head. “I feel like I just watched a boxing match. I think I need a nap.” He flashed Lucy a nervous glance. “See you tonight?”
“If Jack is still alive, yes,” she muttered, heading backstage. Before she made it down the hallway, though, her phone buzzed in her purse with an incoming text.
MARTIN: Your husband’s an idiot. But Twitter is in love with him right now. Good work.
Lucy’s nose flared, and she leaned against the wall, inhaling to keep her temper in check. Even so, her response was texted with fierce, thunking taps against the glass screen.
LUCY: He’s not an idiot.
Martin’s response was sluggish and simple, and she knew he was probably gritting his teeth just as much as she was as he texted it. Still, the single word was a revelation coming from the prickly man.
MARTIN: Sorry.
Unsurprisingly, Jack was alone in his dressing room when Lucy found him. There was a sound like a parrot going through a wind turbine a few doors down, which Lucy assumed was Rita in the midst of a tantrum. Jack laid on his back on the sofa, legs sprawled over the cushions he bounced a tennis ball off the ceiling and caught it.
“Well,” said Lucy. Jack startled and hurled the tennis ball careening into a fluorescent ceiling light, which shattered and dimmed the room. He gawked at the broken glass, then flipped his head upside down over the armrest to look at Lucy.
“Well,” he said.
She knelt by the sofa and ran her hands through the askew strands of Jack’s curls, hanging mid-air over the upholstery. “Tell me,” she said with a smile. “Tell me what’s going on in that head. No editing.”
He tilted his chin until their lips met in a sweet but bizarre-feeling upside-down kiss. “My mom’s a dick,” he murmured against her cheek.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He frowned, though it looked like a smile from this angle. “Your mom fed me pasta.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Something like defeat, even grief, flitted across his face. This went beyond pasta, and they both knew it.
“Come on,” Lucy said, kissing his forehead. “Your face is turning purple in that position, and I promised Sully I’d pick some stuff up at the music store later.”
Jack groaned. “Can’t we just go home? Home has cookies.” Lucy shook her head and pushed on his shoulders until he sat up. “I’m in distress. The only cure is gingerbread. Lots and lots of gingerbread.”
* * *The drive to the music store was quiet except for the plink of light sleet against the glass. Once there, Jack followed Lucy out of the car and into the store with no small amount of grumbling. By the time they reached the door, Lucy laid a finger across his pouting lips, which he promptly nipped.
“Hush for five minutes,” she said. “Please?”
He nodded, she opened the door, and—
“Surprise!” a chorus of voices surrounded them like a woolen blanket. Jack’s nostrils flared, and he tugged Lucy to his side, shielding her with his arm.
“I thought you didn’t like surprises,” he said, his jaw clenched and his dark brows wrinkled.
She shook her head and smiled. “It’s not a surprise for me,” she said. He blinked again at the people gathered in front of him. Parker, finishing up the last bits of decor on a Christmas tree. Sully and Maya, laying out a tray of cookies. Trent and Kim arguing as they set up a Bluetooth speaker of holiday music. Lainey and Hasan waving like loons as Lucy and Jack approached. Even Martin was there, scowling at everyone whenever he looked up from his phone. They were all there, in his building, in his safe place. There for him.
“I don’t understand,” Jack said, his voice quiet as he brushed over the tree’s tinsel with a cautious finger. “It’s not my birthday.”
“Read the sign,” Hasan suggested, pointing to the crooked banner hanging off a pair of bookshelves. In spindly script, it read, “Happy Holidays & Congrats On Your Wedding & You Survived Today Even Though It Sucked.”
“Oh,” said Jack in that strange, withdrawn voice. Lucy tugged him around to each guest, and he exchanged hugs and thanked them in a daze.
“One more surprise,” she said, checking her watch, and he followed her upstairs to his studio. She unplugged her tablet from its charger and beckoned him to the couch, snuggling in next to him as she started a video call. One by one, his in-laws popped up on the screen like a virtual game of whack-a-mole. Ben and Rose sitting on the couch in the old living room. Sophia and Elena in a cramped off-campus apartment. Nico and Ariana calling from their respective offices, and Dante and Matteo from one or the other’s house.
“Hi Jack!” they all intoned, not at all in sync or rhythm. Then an explosion of questions and conversations came at him, asking him How are you? and How was the show? and We can’t wait to see you and Lucy and Are you getting enough sun because you look a little pale and Don’t forget to call Nonna next week because it’s her birthday and Did Lucy make you her gingerbread because it’s really good but she should use more molasses because it’s a good source of iron. It was pure, unfiltered chaos wrapped in a long-distance hug.
Afterwards, he shut down the tablet and handed it to his wife with shaking hands. Then Jack Vincent, award-winning and platinum-selling artist, former teen idol, and worldwide rock star, who not so long ago had millions of fans but no one to take care of him when he was sick, put his face in his hands and began to cry.